The Beast of the Camargue (16 page)

But, in fact, it was not the first time that he had broken into someone's place, and presumably not the last. He closed his eyes as though to evade his guilty conscience.

When he opened them again, he at once saw three objects on Steinert's desk: a white feather, the ebony and ivory hammer and a large pen of the Omas brand. This rarity lay beside a pile of notes, photographs of sculptures and reproductions of ancient engravings. He picked up the pen and turned it round under his eyes. Not a single fingerprint on this either.

“Things are looking more professional,” he mumbled. To make sure, he dismantled the bakelite handle of a drawer with his Swiss army knife and checked inside. Nothing. The cleaner had clearly not missed a thing.

“Someone came here, certainly several times … then came back to remove all the fingerprints and any clues he might have left behind. Someone who doesn't want to be traced …”

De Palma picked up the hammer and tapped it several times on his palm. “But it's not necessarily Steinert's murderer.” He put it back and began to examine the papers, which had to be Steinert's. They were written in perfect French:

The oldest and most horrible representation of terror is a man-eating
monster, called the Tarasque by the Provençals
.

There are countless depictions of the Tarasque in paintings, sculptures and drawings: the most impressive example is without doubt the 140-centimeter sculpture in the Musée Lapidaire in Avignon
.

It is an expression of what the Salluvii, or more precisely the Cavari, found most terrifying
.

The Tarasque is depicted holding two severed bearded heads in its lion's claws, while devouring a human torso in its mouth. It would seem that the Greeks, who were widely present in the region of Tarascon, were inspired to make such a representation of horror by various barbarian customs: head hunting etc. For these Greeks, it would also seem that the civilized world stopped at the summit of the Alpilles …

The British scholar Moore saw in it the murderous aspect of the gods and compared the Tarasque to other man-eating monsters that can be found in Ireland and throughout Northern Europe (cf. Crom, the idol struck down by Saint Patrick)
.

According to art historians, this tradition seems to have been initially Italian, essentially Etruscan, and then Greek. It can thus be supposed that the monster followed the routes of colonization. In my opinion, the myth's origin lies in the sedentarisation of mankind during the Neolithic period
.

Previously, the natural world that surrounded hunter-gatherers was magical (cf. the depictions in painted caves). With the emergence of notions of ownership, the Neolithic farmers began to experience fears of the future: worries about drought, or extreme weather … They answered the questions that tormented them by inventing gods and monsters … These forces of chaos could be tamed only by being depicted, and no doubt by being offered human sacrifices to satisfy their appetite …

The text ran on for another three pages. He set it down and glanced at the photographs. There was an old picture of a flagon with the caption: “Bronze from Durenberg, Austria, with monster devouring a human head.” There were also amateur shots of the papier-mâché
Tarasque that the inhabitants of Tarascon paraded in the streets during the town's festivities, and a picture of a stone monster eating a man, reproductions of other sculptures on the same theme … after that he found ten sheets of paper, the first of which was headed in the right-hand corner by a title written in black felt-pen:

Heracles, the civilizing hero of Provence
.

Then some notes:

His life was a series of senseless murders …
[There followed a list of massacres carried out by Heracles].
In the Crau, he stoned to death the monster Albion (personification of the Albigues of Upper Provence) and Lusis (eponym of the Ligures). BUT
[word underlined in red]
a civilizing aspect:

—
he forbade human sacrifice

—
by killing the thousand-armed Lysis, he overcame the dangers of the Rhône, thus making it navigable

—
he taught weaving

—
he taught house building

—
he taught how to organize a city

—
etc. …

Cf. the release of the cosmic cattle
[two words underlined in red].
The guardian corresponds to the forces of chaos, the cattle to life … By freeing the red, divine kine from Geryon's control, Heracles effects a change in his nature: he abandons brute force and becomes a civilizing hero … WORLD HARMONY
.

And, at the foot of the page:

See the digs in Maussane and Mouriès. Especially, Art strt/37-10B and Art strt/38-11A
.

Finally, written in large letters he read:

DOWNLANDS
.

De Palma lingered for a while over that last sentence. It presumably indicated two library reference numbers—the last thing Steinert had noted before his death. He noted them carefully, and beside them wrote the names of the Tarasque and Heracles and underlined them twice.

It was two in the morning. He decided to search William Steinert's den with a fine-tooth comb, like a forensic scientist. This took him longer than he expected, but he was careful to miss nothing.

At three thirty, he leaned out of the window, checked that no one could see him and let himself slide down the wall until his elbows were resting on the sill.

Just as he was about to brace himself to close the first shutter, he heard a faint metallic click that he recognized immediately. It was the safety catch being taken off an automatic, somewhere in the darkness.

In an instant, he turned round and saw a figure on the opposite pavement taking aim at him. He only just had time to drop down onto the roof before he heard the “plop” of a silencer. Intense pain held him pinned to the tiles. Instinctively, he curled up in the darkness to get out of the sniper's sight.

His entire body was shaking, each of his muscles twitching uncontrollably. This was not the first time that he had been fired at, but it still took some time to collect himself.

Then he analyzed the situation.

Someone had just shot him.

Using an automatic with a silencer.

The bullet had hit his right shoulder, that was all.

The person knew where he was.

The person must have followed him from La Balme farmhouse, or even before.

Perhaps he'd had orders to follow him.

He touched his wound and found that the bullet had just left a shallow graze. He took out a paper handkerchief and pressed it onto the gash. He closed his eyes as his fingers made contact with the sticky blood.

This was the second time in less than a year that someone had tried to kill him.

“It's amateur work …” he said to himself. “The guy's a bastard, but not a professional one. Otherwise he would have waited for me to come down the drainpipe and taken me out without any problem.”

He let fifteen minutes go by and listened to the night. All he could hear was a T.V. set somewhere up above him and some more distant music.

A car drove by. He went over to the edge of the roof and looked down into the street, his face pressed against the tiles. It was empty.

Suddenly, loud voices and laughter echoed off the walls; apparently a group of young people were leaving a party in the building across the street. De Palma made the most of the situation and threw himself down onto the pavement, his Bodyguard pressed against his chest.

When he hit the ground, he rolled over to take cover behind a delivery van, just as he had learned during his commando training course in the army. Then he stood up, pretended to be getting out of the van and stayed as close as possible to the group …

An hour later, he parked on a lay-by on the R.N. 568 in the middle of the vast plain of La Crau. His hands gripping the wheel, he stared into space. Far, very far in the distance glowed the flames of Fossur-Mer.

The weather had been stifling all day. At the end of the afternoon, as the temperature went down, a light wind had risen out to sea, stirring the air as gently as a fan.

De Palma was leaning on his balcony rail and sipping a beer. He had spent the morning at the emergency admissions of the La Timone hospital, waiting for a houseman to sew up his shoulder. Nine stitches.

The doctor had been skillful and hadn't asked too many questions. De Palma had simply told him that he had torn his shoulder on a car-park fence while getting out of his vehicle.

The telephone rang. It was Jean-Louis Maistre reminding him that they had arranged to meet at the yachting harbor of Pointe-Rouge.

De Palma put on a light jacket, slipped his Bodyguard into its holster and also took the .45 that he kept hidden behind a pile of C.D.s. He checked the clip and slipped the automatic behind his back. Then he changed his mind and replaced it, telling himself that he would not let paranoia get to him yet.

In any case, the Bodyguard with its six .38 special rounds was good enough to deal with the most desperate situations.

Half an hour later, Maistre and de Palma were strolling along the quays of Pointe-Rouge.

In the shipyard of Plaisance Plus, a whole row of hulls stood on a set of huge shelves, waiting for a lick of paint. There were also small speedboats and a fishing vessel half corroded by the sea. A workman in blue overalls started up a sander. Maistre had to shout:

“I think it's here, Michel. He said the fourth ring after the electricity meter. I think he must have meant that one.”

A dilapidated boat was bobbing up and down on the sluggish swell. Maistre gave it a long affectionate look, then walked slowly toward it, like a child encountering his wildest dreams made real.

“Yes, this is the one, Michel. There's a bit of wood missing from its bow.”

De Palma stared blankly in the opposite direction.

“Hey, Michel, are you listening to me or daydreaming? Don't forget that we're here to look at a boat, not just for a stroll on the quays.”

“Sorry, I was miles away.”

Maistre pulled on the mooring rope to bring the boat nearer, then clumsily clambered aboard.

“You coming, Michel?”

The manager of Rouge Plaisance, a ship chandler, came out at once, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. But do you know this boat's owner?”

De Palma gave him a chilly look.

“We've got an appointment with him. He's late.”

“And why do you want to see him?”

“We want to buy his boat.”

“What, is it for sale?”

De Palma remained silent. The man from Rouge Plaisance turned on his heel and went back into his store.

“O.K., Jean-Louis, is your comedian going to show up or isn't he?”

Maistre came back onto the quay, still staring at the object of his dreams.

“I don't get it, Michel. We've talked about buying a boat a hundred times. You agreed to it and now you've got cold feet.”

“I've not got cold feet.”

“If you could only see yourself, you'd scare away a sea snake. Just think about the boat and going sailing in her.”

“We haven't bought it yet.”

“And if our man doesn't show, we certainly won't be able to.”

Maistre's mobile rang. It was the boat's owner to cancel the meeting. He had decided to keep the boat for his son.

“Fuck him,” Maistre said as he hung up. “The bugger's called it off.”

“It doesn't matter, Jean-Louis. We'll find another one.”

“Sure, but I could just picture myself in this one already. Behind Maïre making soup, just like two and two make four.”

“That's for later.”

“Yeah … but when I think of all these boats that just stand here idle, it really gets me down …”

“I'm deep in shit, Jean-Louis.”

Maistre looked his friend up and down, while searching for something in his pockets.

“What's going on?”

“A nasty business. Something serious happened to me yesterday evening. I mean, last night.”

Maistre opened a packet of cigarettes, removed one, lit it and dragged on it nervously, swaying on his feet.

“What happened is that someone shot me …”

Maistre closed his eyes, exhaled loudly and stared at the boats that were rocking gently in the port. After a long silence, de Palma added in a flat voice:

“I was coming out of Steinert's office, and someone took a shot at me. I've got a fine scar on my left shoulder. I had it stitched up this morning.”

In a fury, Maistre threw his barely started cigarette onto the ground and stamped on it.

“Nothing serious, just a scratch. But … I was scared out of my wits, Jean-Louis …”

Maistre sniffed and looked his friend straight in the eye.

“And can I ask what the fuck you were doing in the middle of the night in Steinert's office? I thought I heard he was dead!”

“I wanted to …”

Maistre wanted to shout, but he spoke quietly, through clenched teeth.

“Don't tell me you broke in, then the landlord or someone took you for a burglar in the heat of the moment!”

“Something like that.”

“Jesus, I was sure of it. Now, out with it all.”

“I got into Steinert's office through the window, and when I came
out someone was waiting for me on the pavement opposite and tried to whack me. Now you know everything.”

“And that's all? And you tell me this, just like that? In Pointe-Rouge! You should have called me at once!”

“I must admit that didn't occur to me.”

“And all because of this investigation you're undertaking into this sodding billionaire, even though everyone says he drowned in twenty centimeters of stinking water!”

“You've got it, Le Gros.”